


break up with your girlfriend (i'm bored)

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Pining, Something like that?, also have no idea how american college systems work, also im not good with punctuation ok bye, bellamy blake defense squad 2k19, clarke thirsting after bellamy, clarke trying to steal ekkos man, ekko can choke and im not apologizing squad 2k19, how to ruin a backstabbing ugly demons life, just know yall are in debt for the rest of your life, me an intellectual: -ariana grande voice- and what about it??, me explaining outfits in detail to scratch exactly one itch that is my own, no actual cheating thank u next, princess mechanic are friends, some morally questionable thinking in this fic, step 1: figure out her weaknesses so you can exploit them, step 2: figure out she none because she's a coldhearted bitch, step 3: abort plan and steal her man, that is mostly due to ekko bein in this fic shes horrible and its all in character so lick my balls, trigger warning for some homo- and biphobia, who is still reading this wtf, you: clarke couldve just beat up echo and that wouldve been revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:35:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: "Isn't she dating that TA? From the history department? The hot one?"Clarke must still look confused, because Raven rolls her eyes, adding, "Octavia Blake's brother?""Right," she answers, a beat too late, her friend too intoxicated to notice. Clarke vaguely knew Bellamy Blake. Monty was her lab partner in bio, and he knew Jasper, who in turn was friends with Octavia, whose brother was him. She even took a class with him serving as the TA last year; remembers arguing with him on more than one occasion; remembers having heated discussions about the renaissance, semiotics, the social significance of La Gioconda; remembers he was somewhat ridiculously attractive.So yes. Vaguely rings a bell. Yet, she doesn't see what he has to do with any of this. Then her eyes widen slightly. "You want me to—""Steal her man," Raven fills in, pointing a lean finger at her. She thinks it's directed at her anyway. Then she's back sipping on her drink.OR: The logical thing for Clarke to do when some succubus on campus screws her over is to let it go, be the bigger person, let karma take care of it. Yet, there she is. Trying to platonically seduce it's boyfriend while still trying to remain morally correct.





	break up with your girlfriend (i'm bored)

**Author's Note:**

> we obviously like bellamy and echo together because of their development and obvious chemistry, not because we seem them as a means to keep bellamy and clarke apart because we're still rightfully bitter over half of our ship dying! love echo my uwu warrior spy princess<33 good now that they've stopped reading NO BECHOS ALLOWED!!!! echo can choke and she doesnt deserve bellamy and if you disagree you can kindly fuck off 
> 
> wanted to upload this on vday because im bitter but its plain clear i cant work w deadlines anyway obv based on that one ariana song the locals are going off about, dont take it too seriously pls. except for the bi-breakdown thats somewhere in there cg deserves better. small heads up: clarke uses lots of fucks in this fic, she is v frustrated ;)

"Slow down," Raven exclaims with a grimace on her face, watching Clarke down her third shot in under two minutes (a new record), as she waves the bartender over, ordering a glass of water. The heavy beat of some Chainsmokers song drums through the speakers, breaking up the hubbub of drunk people laughing and holler most likely at different drunk people, but doing nothing to lay ease to Clarke's agitation.

" _My club_ , Raven, my club," Clarke continues her now ten minute long rant, as Raven pushes the glass of water over the bar until it rests in front of the blonde. Her fingers wrap around it automatically. "She literally found dirt on everyone and got them to sign a petition  _behind my back_ to kick me out."

Nobody had wanted to talk to Clarke. She cornered every single member of her LGTBQIA+ club—the first at Polis U—personally and privately, reminded them it was  _her_ who founded the club,  _her_ who vowed to keep their club safe, to keep  _them_  safe. Nothing worked until  _finally_  a small, mouse-ish looking transgirl from freshman year named Maya cracked after some light bribery on Clarke's part. (She promised to give Jasper's number to her, which she was sure he wouldn't mind anyway.)

"She basically told them I didn't take enough safety precautions and passive aggressively let it fall that if they didn't concede with her something," Clarke air quotes, gritting her teeth together, "very 'bad' might happen—"

"And let me guess, with something bad she lowkey means she would forcefully throw them out of the closet?" Raven checks, one eyebrow lifted, and when Clarke meets her gaze with her nose scrunched up in disgust, she hisses, "Yikes."

It's still early, more people trickling in now it's actually dark out, so their bartender Gina knows exactly what they need and when they need it. Clarke shoves over one of her shots to Raven as she licks some salt of her hand, downing the tequila before sliding a quarter of lime into her mouth to suck on. Only then, she explains, "She made a fake profile and found everyone's Finsta's, screenshotting them for blackmailing purposes."

Not everyone is out to their family or friends, for fuck's sake. Rat. She's a rat. This isn't a fucking joke.

"Wow," Raven states, a little too loudly, removing her slice of lime from her mouth and discarding it inside her empty shot glass. "Was she trying to channel Red Sparrow?"

Her heart swells with adoration, briefly, because of Raven remembering that movie like Clarke didn't force her to watch it just so she could thirst over the actress for a good two hours. Then she's back to scowling. Clarke scoffs, hatefully, finally taking a sip of the water. That snake is not worth the hangover she's going to have in the morning if she doesn't. "Like she has  _anything_  on Jennifer Lawrence."

"Doesn't she have a boyfriend?" The brunette wonders out loud, adjusting the strap on her leg brace to be able to rub a sore spot underneath mindlessly. "Is she bi or something?"

"No," Clarke hisses through her teeth, fingers gripping the glass in front of her so tightly her knuckles turn white. The bi's don't claim Echo Olwyn and they never will. "She insisted the A stood for Ally."

Clarke is pretty sure the gremlin only joined for extra credit because she almost got expelled for cheating on her midterms last year. That must've gone on her record. Nothing like a little diversity on her resume to counteract all the swindling.

Raven smirks, a red flush creeping up her neck that tells Clarke she is sufficiently buzzed. Good, she deserves it. "The heteros really are beasts."

Clarke cracks a smile at that despite herself. The alcohol is finally starting to kick in for her as well, releasing some of the tension in her shoulders as she settles on her barstool a little more comfortably. "You know you're the only straight I can tolerate."

Raven pretends to be deeply moved, touching a hand to her heart mockingly as she uses her free hand to stuff a mozzarella stick into her mouth. Gina really is the MVP.

The blonde sighs, pressing her thumb and forefinger into her eye-sockets to release some of the pressure behind her lids. Softer this time, no longer just angry, but incredibly sad, she breathes, "That was my club, Rave. My people."

Coming out as bi in her sophomore year in high school (after a very confusing but very much real crush on her Political Science teacher Ms. Diyoza) she didn't really have a support system. Arkadia was a small town and people didn't openly harass her, but they averted their eyes, whispered about her like she wasn't there, actively avoided being in the same room as her. Which, might have all been worse. Her parents were accepting  _enough_ —despite their microaggressive comments—but she never ever felt at ease in her own skin there again.

So when she came to Polis U she vowed she was going to do it different. Out and proud, she started a Pride Club for everyone who wanted the join, who needed a safe space, who wanted to be part of something. A club she had ran with heart and soul and been the president of for the past three years. Until Echo decided otherwise, apparently.

Her friend pats her on the shoulder sympathetically, and she can hear her take a sip from her jack and coke because the straw gurgles noisily. "So are you going to rise above or is miss Self Constraint finally going to end a bitch?"

"How would I even do that? She has zero interests," she huffs, skeptically, chugging down half of the glass of water since her throat is dry and she can pretend it's vodka, so win/win. It's not like Clarke can steal a different club away from her. And she can't expose her, because no one would actually come forward as a witness since the ice witch scared them into submission.

Raven cocks a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, brushing her hair behind her ear. She took it out of her iconic signature ponytail, and Clarke's knows her, so she knows it means she is halfway to the point of being absolutely shitfaced. "Isn't she dating that TA? From the history department? The hot one?"

Clarke must still look confused, because Raven rolls her eyes, adding, "Octavia Blake's brother?"

"Right," she answers, a beat too late, her friend too intoxicated to notice. Bellamy Blake. Clarke  _vaguely_ knew Bellamy Blake. Monty was her lab partner in bio, and he knew Jasper, who in turn was friends with Octavia, whose brother was him. She took a class with him serving as the TA last year; remembers arguing with him on more than one occasion; remembers having heated discussions about the renaissance, semiotics, the social significance of La Gioconda; remembers he was somewhat ridiculously attractive.

So yes. Vaguely rings a bell. Yet, she doesn't see what he has to do with any of this. Then her eyes widen slightly. "You want me to—"

"Steal her man," Raven fills in, pointing a lean finger at her. She thinks it's directed at her anyway. Then she's back sipping on her drink.

"I hate cheating," Clarke says, aghast, leaning her elbows on top of the sticky bar. " _You_ hate cheating. Finn is the whole reason we even met."

"You don't have to make him  _cheat_ ," she counters, sounding aggravated at the mere suggestion. Like Clarke was just supposed to get what she meant. "Just make him like you more than he likes her—which shouldn't be hard—" She snorts, loud, seems to forget her train of thought for a second before she jumps back in, "So he'll dump her with the message you're better than her."

"So pretending like it technically won't be cheating is supposed to give me moral high ground here?" Clarke questions, skeptical, but she's already giving it serious thought, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Look, if you'd ask  _me_? Not giving a fuck is better than revenge, you know, let karma take care of it. _But_ I know you're a carer and you won't be able to let this go unless you get justice," Raven drones on, covering her friend's forearm with a warm palm. She flicks her brown eyes up to the ceiling, annoyed at how Clarke could possibly be misunderstanding her words. "I'm not saying you fuck her boyfriend, I'm saying—"

Clarke smirks, amused. "I eye-fuck him until he says he can't live without me?"

Raven lifts a shoulder indifferently, forgoing her straw and polishing off her drink by gulping it down quickly. "Wasn't that basically ninety percent of the relationship between you and Lexa?"

"Shut up," Clarke mutters in response, knocking her knee into hers in lieu of a better comeback. Lexa and her  _did_ gaze into each other's eyes a lot, like it was their own sort of weirdly intense and intensely weird version of foreplay. To be fair, her eyes had been hypnotizing as hell and had gotten her to lots of things she thought she'd never do.

(Well, until Lexa took that internship spot at that fancy art dealer that she only got because she stole Clarke's extensive research from her laptop. Now she couldn't stand the color green.)

Raven suddenly gasps, loudly, attracting the attention of a bunch of onlookers, and Clarke tries to keep her from falling off her barstool with a limited hand-eye coordination on her part as well. Maybe her friend had had a few more than she'd originally thought.

"What?" Clarke snaps, irritated, after she keeps getting slapped in the arm without hearing some actual information. She follows Raven's gaze, but comes up short as to why she was just being beaten to death.

"Freckles," she exclaims, pressing the palm of her hand to her mouth as she tries to hide a burp behind it. Then she extends her arm, literally pointing at someone's direction until Clarke quickly swats it back down, feeling her own neck flush in embarrassment.

Echo's boyfriend. He's here.

Hopefully he didn't notice Raven announcing him like a poodle at a dog show. Clarke leans closer to her friend, pulling on her elbow to line up their faces. "I've had  _zero_  time to weigh my steely morals with my thirst for vindication."

"You're a slytherin," she announces, enthusiastic, swaying on her stool so her head almost buts into Clarke's. "I think we know the answer."

The blonde raises her eyebrows almost excitedly. "You finally watched the movies?"

"No," Raven rolls her eyes, but then immediately presses a hand to her forehead like it made her dizzy. "I was trying to be all relatable and shit."

"I think it worked," Clarke says, decisively, letting go of her friend's elbow and taking a sip of her cocktail for liquid courage purposes only. She casually looks over her shoulder at the intended target. He still looks unaware. "You'll be okay here for five minutes?"

She orders two beers as Raven pinches her thumb and pointer finger into a circle with some difficulty, nodding at Clarke when she succeeds, "Go get him, Harrold."

Clarke slides off her stool, sending her a dreadful look as she snatches her phone of the bar and stuffs it into her backpocket. "Please tell me you know his name is Harry."

She shrugs innocently, swirling her straw around her glass with her tongue to try and get it in her mouth even though the glass is empty, and Clarke looks over at Gina, who just grins, amused, as she runs a wet rag over the bar, "I'll keep an eye on her."

Satisfied with the fact her friend won't be date-raped in the meantime, Clarke makes her way over to Echo's boyfriend (she's trying to compartmentalize here), and the closer she gets, the more terrible she feels. He's actually really, really good-looking. Black t-shirt stretched across his arms and firm chest, his hair an unruly mess of dark curls, his sharp jawline sending a jolt straight to her lower belly. God, the freckles. Over the years, keeping her distance, she  _almost_  forgot.

"Beer?" She asks, once she's reached him. He exchanges a look with the friend he was talking to—broad serious looking African American guy—then turns to Clarke with a smug grin on his face. Kill bill sirens go off in her head. This is a mistake.

"Sure," he finally says, taking one from her, and his friend rolls his eyes, turning to a cute brunette girl with a small facial tattoo that may or may not resemble a knife beside him instead, muttering something along the lines of ' _whatever_ '. "Is this a peace offering?"

"Actually," Clarke retorts, trying to buy herself some time because she really couldn't have thought of a reason why she would be talking to him before coming over, and she was inebriated but not inebriated  _enough_  for something like this, "I was wondering if you could help me."

If anything, Clarke remembers him being a big fan of helping others in need—like the number  _one_  fan of facilitating others. She doesn't know if that was because of some superiority complex or whether he actually enjoyed doing it selflessly, but either way she was betting on it working in her favor. Plus, lying through smiling teeth was a natural talent of hers with her step-dad being the mayor and all.

"So we went straight from cold war to providing altruistic favors, huh?" He raises his eyebrows—and god, she wants his stupid face to stop doing that thing it's doing—his smirk widening. "Not even a little supplication? Some groveling?"

Two can play that vague borderline flirting game. She forces, what she hopes is, a seductive grin on her face. "Who said there's nothing in it for you?" She almost throws a lip bite in there for good measure, but luckily remembers she's wearing plum colored lipstick just in time.  _That_ would have been embarrassing.

"Don't tell me you lost your number and you need mine," he deadpans, making her snort, probably very unattractively, but she doesn't care. That was a line. A very bad line at that.

"Please," she asserts, putting the bottle to her lips and taking a swig, heart beating loudly at the implications of this all. No matter what her intentions really were, he didn't know. He might think she was  _actually_  coming on to him. His annoyed friend sure did. "I meant academically. Doesn't history get you all hot and bothered?"

He cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed look washing over his brown eyes. "I thought I couldn't tell my ass from my elbow?"

Clarke inwardly cringes, running a hand through her short wavy hair. So he  _did_  remember. Fantastic. Can't back down now. "Well, I'm not here to apologize. Wallace has us writing a paper on lost art, I picked Klimt. He painted—"

"Portrait of a Lady," he cuts in, dry, and it dawns on her she's being a know-it-all like he accused her of being back then, too, "I know."

She bites down a smile, doesn't want to seem too eager. "I could really use someone to read it over, give me some tips. Wallace keeps failing me over petty reasons and at this point in the semester, I'm desperate."

He chokes on a sip of his beer, small chuckle escaping deep from his throat. "Wow, you really know how to sweet talk a guy."

"What can I say? Not only my hands are talented," she blurts out, and of course she meant her hands were talented  _art_ wise. He knew she majored in art. Hopefully. She's just glad that in the morning she can blame her tipsiness on the blatant unequivocal  _coming onto him_  by sort of implying she has a lucrative mouth, cheeks getting heated.

If he notices the innuendo or the flushed, regretful expression on her face, he doesn't show. "Well, if you're failing the class I'm thinking your critical thinking skills could use some work."

In any other situation she'd have punched him the arm, but right now she's just glad he broke the tension between them that probably only she was aware of. She takes another sip of her beer, just to make sure he  _knows_  she's been drinking in case this all blows up in her face. She's cunning like that, even smashed.

"You'll help me?" She settles on finally, after swallowing a particular bitter sip, scrunching up her face. He laughs at the sight of it, the sound warm and deep, completely unapologetic and bright.

"Sure, but we can't do it at my office," Bellamy agrees, picking at the condensated label on his bottle with thumbnail distractedly. Any other guy and that would have been a serious red flag, but despite him being an asshole and them having had their differences, she knows he's not  _that_  kind of asshole and she trusts him. "I already got into trouble for having my girlfriend over even though she wasn't my student."

Clarke sobers at the mention of Echo, straightening the bottom of her powder-pink portrait neck shirt with her free hand accompanied by a disgruntled pout on her face, maybe also coincidentally unintentionally drawing attention to her cleavage. His eyes flick down, just barely, but she considers it a win. "That won't be a problem."

Suddenly someone's long, boney fingers wrap around his bicep. Clarke clenches her jaw.  _Echo_. The brunette nudges Bellamy's arm until he relents and lifts it, letting her settle into his side, barely casting a glance the other girl's way as she snarls, "Can we leave already?"

"Yeah," Bellamy states, a slight frown on his face. "Uhm," he starts, eyes darting between the two of them awkwardly. "Echo, this is Clarke. Clarke, this is—"

"I'm well aware," Clarke says at the same time as Echo cuts in, "I know who she is." Except the blonde has to bite down a smirk as the other girl's territoritative hand comes to rest on his chest. So she  _would_ care.

"So I'll meet you in your room?" Clarke can't help but announce loudly—probably a little unnaturally loud, but at least it makes a nasty scowl wash over Echo's face—and he sends her a funny look. "Yeah," he stares at her for a beat longer like he's trying to figure her out, then shakes his head, slightly, scrubbing a hand over his face, "Just email me your paper beforehand so I can look it over, okay?"

"Thanks," she says, reaching over to squeeze the wrist attached to the fingers still wrapped around his beer before turning on her heels and rushing back over to Raven. She doesn't look back once. (It's not like she couldn't handle a death stare from Echo—because  _please_ —she just couldn't bare to see Bellamy laughing along with the female reincarnation of Lucifer.)

"I called Zeke," the latina drawls loudly as soon as she appears back into her direct eyeline, leaning back into her boyfriend's chest. (She usually only calls him Zeke in private, normally asserting dominance and a fake perception of unattachedness by using his last name. So, Raven: drunk.) Raven gives Clarke, what she assumes is, a thumbs up.

"I can tell," Clarke grins, amused as she sends him a nod in greeting. "Also, step 1 of my ruin Echo's life is completed."

Shaw makes a face like he's not even going to bother asking, which Clarke is thankful for. She couldn't bear to explain her morally questionable plan another time and have more images of disappointed, judgemental looks flying around in her brain. She already knows it's a bad idea. The worst.

"High five, sister," Raven exclaims, but doesn't make a move to lift her hand. She just giggles, instead, making Shaw huff, humoured, "I think it's time we take you home, huh?"

"Yes," she exclaims, wiggling her eyebrows aggressively as she swings an arm around his waist, trying to slide her hand underneath his shirt until he tugs it away with slightly widened eyes. "Not like that, Reyes."

"Why not?" She pouts as Zeke lifts her arm to rest around his neck, helping her slide off the barstool. She winces only slightly when her bad leg hits the ground. Clarke exchanges an amused glance with her friend's boyfriend. She must have had about five drinks. Five-drinks-Raven gets really thirsty, and not for beverages.

"I have a headache," he offers, deadpanning, and Clarke bites down a grin as she takes Raven's other arm to put it around her shoulders. She doesn't know how they went to a bar to drink away  _Clarke_ 's troubles and  _Raven_  ended up being the one unable to walk, but here they are.

"But," Raven starts to protest, slurring, as they leave the bar and Clarke throws a thankful wave over to Gina, arms flailing around widely, "I'm just a hole, sir! Nothing but a hole."

Clarke almost pees her pants laughing while Shaw tries to get her to keep her voice down at least, already given up on trying to shut her up. The fifteen minute walk back down to campus is the best part of her night.

Shaw insists on walking her to her dorm first, promises he can carry Raven by himself, and when she gets in her roommate Gaia is pre-gaming with her friends (or fellow cult members, Clarke's still not sure), so naturally she joins for a drink or two until they leave to go to some club (or human sacrifice) in the city (at some random graveyard).

It's barely past twelve when her head hits her pillow, blonde hair fanned out underneath her head as she thinks about her night. She laughs to herself, stupid, covering her face with a hand as she tries to shake off the bubbly lightness she feels inside thanks to her good old friend Alcohol.

Clarke rolls over into her stomach, pulling her phone out of her backpocket simultaneously. Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, she opens her email app and taps out a quick message. His email is still in her contacts and she recently sent the essay over to Monty so he could proofread it, so it's just one press on the forward button and absolutely no big deal she's doing this like an hour after seeing him, 12:00 am on a Friday night. Like she has nothing better to do.

* * *

 **To:** [bb.blake@polis.edu](mailto:bb.blake@polis.edu)

 **Subject:** Fwd: RE: monty my king

hi buddy. sir. buddy sir.

totally professional email. idk if you can get in trouble emailing non-students?? who made these rules?>? rules are stupid. kidding i like rules. live for them.     love you thanks

xx clarke, one of your students ;)

\---

 **_From:_ ** _“Clarke Griffin” < _ [ _cj.griffin@polis.edu_ ](mailto:cj.griffin@polis.edu) _ > _

**_To:_ ** _“Monty Green” < _ [ _ms.green@polis.edu_ ](mailto:ms.green@polis.edu) _ > _

**_Subject:_ ** _monty my king_

_I would marry you and have your children if you didn’t want to smash faces with Harper so bad. If that doesn’t work out I’ll owe you a baby, otherwise: drinks are on me next Saturday!_

* * *

  **Att. (1):** _fuckwallace.doc_

* * *

 

Swell. Totally not something she'll regret in the morning, she muses, already drifting off.

.

"Maybe switch the part where you compare this work to his other portraits and the paragraph about his color scheme, try and make it more funnel-shaped?" Bellamy offers, turning his head to gauge her reaction, and since they're crammed together behind his desk, bent over her work—that he actually printed out on paper and marked with a red pen, writing little comments in the margins and she's a bad fucking person—that means his face is even closer to hers. She can count every eyelash at this distance, every freckle, every shade of brown in his annoying chocolate/coffee/cinnamon colored eyes; gets another intoxicating whiff of cologne invading her personal space.

Clarke blinks at him for a moment, stupidly, then clenches her jaw, grip around her pencil tightening. His feedback actually makes fucking sense, and it's pissing her off. This was supposed to be a five minute session, tops, a mere cover for her actual intentions. He was supposed to be an ass, maybe even hit on her, and she could skate through this all on her looks, could pull out some frat boy moves and bite her tongue, all so he would think she's a charming little  _nice_  girl that one day might sleep with him and dump that lizard-demon for her. It was supposed to be this whole ' _play the player'_ and taking back the power thing, breaking his girlfriend's black hole in her chest at the same time. Now  _she_ just feels like the douchebag for deceiving him. Hoarsely, she admits, "Yeah. That makes sense."

He nods, but doesn't turn back to her paper. Instead, he keeps looking at her, brow crinkled slightly and she's getting slightly heated under his gaze. She grabs the glass of water he got her earlier off the corner of his desk to have something to do and maybe cool down, almost knocking over the photo of him and his sister. Her arm is hooked around his neck and he's pointing at the Polis U on the front of her sweater, excited beam on his face.

Octavia has been staring at her with her beady little judgemental eyes all afternoon. That, or she's projecting.

"What's wrong with you?" Bellamy asks suddenly, and just like that any feelings of awkwardness disappears. Now she's just irritated.

"Nothing," Clarke declares, somewhat offended. Glancing over at the photoframe quickly, just to check, she presses, "It  _barely_  moved."

"Not that," he brushes her off, sounding slightly irked, then his voice turns more serious and he's giving her the same beady little judgemental eyes as his sister. "We haven't had an argument all afternoon."

Her jaw clenches as she swallows tightly, pretending to be super interested in scribbling down something on the bottom of the page in front of her. "And what about it?"

Bellamy looks severely unimpressed, an almost condescending look gracing his features as he pushes, "I said the quality of artwork is a completely objective value and called it the general consensus and you just ignored me." Ha. He  _did_  say it just to get a rise out of her. Her self control is amazing.

"Maybe my views have changed," she snaps, not even sure who she's angry at here, or why she's trying to overcompensate with the whole defensive attitude. He's not  _wrong_ , but she couldn't very well say she swallowed her anger and thought of various sized boobs—her happy place—because she was trying to platonically seduce him, now could she? "Maybe  _I_  changed."

Bellamy looks at her another second, eyes slightly narrowed before he shakes his head lightly, leaning back in his chair as he stretches his arms, black t-shirt rising up a little. Clarke tries not to glance at the exposed skin revealing a plane of golden brown skin and an enticing treasure trail, tries to stay strong and focus, while a smirk spreads across his face, "Or is it because you love me?"

Clarke startles at first, just briefly, then groans, remembering that embarrassing fucking email. "To death," she replies, dryly, "Preferably mine."

He raises his eyebrows, hands coming down to rest on top of his thighs. Those fucking hands. He's so close to her still, their knees constantly brushing together. "You won't really be able to stick it to Wallace if you die."

"I could haunt him," she offers, adding a half-hearted shrug. "Rattle his doors at night, use ketchup to write hate-mail on his mirrors, maybe hide his blood pressure medication."

" _Or,_ " Bellamy presses, nodding over to his desk with an amused grin. "You could nail this paper and be the bigger person."

Clarke rolls her eyes, annoyed for no particular reason, or maybe all the reasons. "I'm already trying to be the bigger person in other aspects of my life." Even though it doesn't count, because she's not  _actually_  being the bigger person. She's here, isn't she? "For once, I would love to be the smaller person."

"What do you mean?" He asks, brow furrowing together in confusion. He still doesn't break his gaze, which, what is up with that? Just drop it, man. His eyes soften, and he shifts forward on his chair a little. Is he  _actually_ concerned about her?

The blonde sighs, dropping her pencil and running a hand through her short bob instead, scratching at the side of her nose next as she debates telling him. He doesn't push. "Your—Echo. She took the pride club from me." She purses her lips, correcting herself, " _Stole_  my club."

He stiffens, and she can tell he's forcing himself to relax, because his shoulder slouch, but there's still tension written all over his face, fingers flexed unnaturally casual across his thighs, his back ramrod straight. "Oh. I didn't know."

Clarke's gaze snaps up to meet his, incredulous. What a fucking liar. "You didn't know?"

He shrugs, the apologetic look on his face revealing he really wasn't aware about his girlfriend's extracurricular activities. "We don't really talk about that sort of stuff."

Right. They probably discuss her fortnightly blood rituals, what type of sword she can use on the next person she's stabbing in the back, maybe what position they like to have sex in like the two attractive, tall giraffes they are.

"Well. She sucks," Clarke settles on instead of diving into that whole seriously screwed up statement. She's not going to get involved. God forbid she ends up fixing their problems. "She wants bi- and pansexuals in different sex relationships to prove they experience same sex attraction before they're allowed to join the club."

Summing it up, he urges, "So you hate her?" He doesn't look all that offended, which, stupidly, springs hope deep inside her chest.

"Of course I do," she bites, not particularly directed at him but it just comes out like that. "She  _is_ the devil incarnate."

He snorts, quickly tries to cover it up with a cough. "She gets a little carried away sometimes. It's part of her charming personality."

"Yeah," Clarke scoffs, falling back against her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She wishes he wouldn't defend her. "Personality disorder."

"I'm sorry on her behalf—" Bellamy starts, hand briefly covering hers sympathetically, while she mutters, "That makes one of you." Which he pointedly ignores, safe for the curling up of the corners of his mouth, "—but don't hold back on my account, okay?" He tilts his head, waiting for her response, somehow having figured out her submissiveness was related to Echo's bullshit. When she doesn't yell at him or wipe her paper off the table, he concludes, gently, turning the page, "I like hearing your opinions."

So casual, like it doesn't  _almost_ knock the breath out of her. "You're going to regret saying that," Clarke retorts, ignoring the nervous fluttering in her chest as she shifts in her chair as well. "Sooner rather than later."

He laughs, hearty, then picks up his red pen, pointing at something. She's still looking at him though, humming in agreement before forcing herself to actually focus on the paper. Even though it barely matters if she passes at this point. Either way, she's already royally fucked.

.

"I'm sorry," she presses, out of breath, as she throws her duffel down onto the red faux leather booth, slipping in beside it. "Got cornered by that greasy bible guy on the quad."

"It's fine," Bellamy brushes her off, closing his book and stuffing it into his bag beside him. "I'm pretty sure Murphy is just using Christianity as cover for some ponzi scheme he's trying to pull."

"Surprised it didn't burn his hands."

They decided to meet at a diner five minutes away from campus, something Bellamy insisted on after she texted she would just come in for a meeting after going to the gym, both too busy to make any other time slot work that week. Not like she doesn't only go there to make Raven happy, and usually just ends up serving as a spotter for her friend while she bench presses like 125 pounds. Still, he's concerned she might faint if she doesn't eat, which is a sweet thing to be concerned about.

Clarke takes a sip of the strawberry milkshake he ordered her, and she pushes out a relieved sigh, the instant sugar rush making her feel calmer. Which is good, considering she did end up running like two miles in the end and probably looks like a sweaty mess. Leaning back in her seat, she starts shrugging off her hoodie, leaving her in just a black, form-fitting workout tank. She just hopes she doesn't smell like exhaustion and death.

"You look nice," he notes, and doesn't even sound sarcastic, like this is a normal thing to say while practically tutoring someone. This isn't a date, not even a study date. He's just— _helping_  her, doing his job, like the good TA is he. It does not get more platonic than that. She needs to remember that at all times.

Clarke reaches up to run a hand over her hair as well as she can with the top half pulled into a ponytail, sending him a skeptical look as she mirrors his position, leaning her elbows on top of the table. Now that she's caught her breath, she can actually take a good look at him, which does nothing to slow down her heart rate. "Do you need me to give you five stars on some TA Uber style app or something?"

"And you would allow yourself to be bribed, thought you lived for rules?" He grins, shoving a half-full plate towards her, a greasy smell invading her nostrils. She immediately digs in, because screw Bellamy for being right, but she was hungry.

"Stop holding that drunk email above my head," she retorts, pointing a fry at him, then pops it into her mouth. She throws it back to his unconventional teaching style. "So what if I like order and certainty? If we all just do whatever the hell we want that's a guaranteed extinction of mankind."

He arches an eyebrow, pulling the plate back toward him as if to make a point. "Now who's holding something above someone's head?"

Bellamy grins, so she knows he isn't actually annoyed with her, but she's more alarmed at the way it makes her feel. He's just so fucking attractive, which, fine, could be a nonpartisan subjective observation. But she also thinks he has the best smile ever, that he's smart, and funny, and arrogant in a way that's actually charming, and yeah, maybe she imagines his weight on top of her more often than not nowadays.

So she's into him? What's the big deal? If she remembers correctly, like half of her classmates were like in love with him when she took that course with him. People call him the 'Hot TA' for fuck's sake. She's nothing special—her feelings are nothing special—she can handle it.

"If it helps calm your neurotic need for control—" He starts, dumb smug smirk on his face as he clasps his hands together on top of the table and leans closer, almost conspiratorially.

"I'm not neurotic," she interjects, glaring at him as she drags the food back over to her, guarding it by putting her forearms on either side.

He sends her a pointed look, continuing, "—doing whatever the hell we want stopped being my general consensus a while back."

Bellamy used to give them an assignment, no rules or method on how to do it as long as the final product ended up answering the problem formulated by him. Of course she hated it, because maybe she did like being in control just a tiny bit, but admittingly it also had it perks. People got very creative, started thinking outside of the box. People who took their education seriously, that is.

Clarke snorts, dipping one of the soggy fries into a pool of ketchup, "Gee, can't imagine what happened."

"I forgot this was college I guess," he answers anyway, keeping one arm on top of the table as he leans back in his seat, content just watching her eat and it's not until she's almost finished that Clarke realizes he hasn't even mentioned her paper yet.

Sighing, she picks up a napkin, wiping her mouth with it. She scrunches it up in her hand, searching his face. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, hesitation evident, before she finally says, "Can I ask you something?"

The worst part of  _all_ of this is that Clarke actually  _wants_ to fuck him now. She is seriously considering throwing her morals overboard and just going with it. It's a vicious circle. The more she tries not to want it, the more she can't stop thinking about it.

Of course she never does because he has a fucking girlfriend and it doesn't matter if she's the literal devil in a beat up pair of uggs, he still made a commitment to her. And no matter how badly Clarke wants him, she couldn't live with herself if he broke that commitment because of her. She's not sure she would even still like him then. Which, how is she supposed to deal with any of these feelings? The worst in her wants him to cheat, and the best in her wants him to yell at her for even thinking of the possibility. There's something seriously wrong with her and her questionable principles.

"Yeah, of course," he answers, curiosity washing over her face. Clarke takes another long noisy sip of her milkshake, obviously stalling. It's not like she's afraid to ask the question, it's just that she's not sure she wants to hear the answer. In the end, her need to know beats out the protection of her own feelings.

Clarke wipes her clammy palms on her yoga pants clad thighs, then just comes right out and says it, "Why are you even with her? Echo, I mean?"

She wants to add something along the lines of  _she is literally the worst_ , but decides against it. This isn't about how  _she_  feels about Echo, because that's pretty clear. She has a million reasons not to like her. From the top of her head, she stole her club and stabbed her in the back. She's anti-vax and looks like she smells like dead fish. Clarke simply doesn't like the way her face is arranged. All of that… That's irrelevant to how  _he_  feels. Clarke wants to understand what he sees in her, because maybe she's just epically deluded and there something she's missing. Maybe Echo is working to find the cure for cancer, or saved a baby from oncoming traffic, or maybe she's just incredibly wrong about Bellamy and he just likes her for her ass.

He sighs, loud, scrubbing a hand over his face. The silence can't be more than ten seconds, but it feels like long, dreadful minutes. "I mean," he starts, shaking his head lightly, "She used to be my sister's teammate, on the soccer team?" He checks, to see if Clarke's following along, which she is. "Then Echo broke her leg, which she still swears was accidental but Octavia has yet to forgive her."

Clarke scoffs, but doesn't say anything. She doesn't want to scare him off. His jaw flexes, just a second, eyes fixated on his fist on top of the table, then he continues, explaining Echo was into him, and she didn't really give up. She was still trying when he got into a huge fight with his sister—the biggest they ever had, he says, but doesn't say more, which Clarke figures means that's a whole different conversation—and he mostly allowed the whole thing to happen out of spite. He concludes, "We're not  _together_ together, I guess. Not in the way you think."

She gives him a second to elaborate, but when he doesn't, she presses, "She's  _not_ your girlfriend?"

"I guess we did put a term on it, yeah," he admits, half apologetic, like he wasn't consciously part of that decision. Like he was just going along with the motions. "After a while it kind of just seemed right, I guess."

"Like you don't have any other options," Clarke snaps. blurting it out just like that—mainly out of annoyance at the fact he seems to think she is all he worthy of, like he's some sort of hideous troll with a walmart store personality—but then she realizes what she said. What she implied.

Something flashes across his eyes, something she can't quite place in the brief moment it does, and then he's pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not that. I know I do. It's just that—I don't know." He shakes his head, irritated with himself. "I guess she was there when I needed someone. I was in a really bad place, and I didn't really care who that someone was. And after that it was just convenient."

"Convenient?" She repeats, cynical. "Have you tried downloading Tinder?"

The corners of his lips turn up at that, at least, just lightly, and it doesn't reach his eyes, but still. She considers it a win. "Maybe—" he sucks in a breath, starts talking faster like he might not get it out otherwise, like he's still unsure about admitting it, "Some dark twisted part of me thinks I deserve it."

Clarke swallows tightly, tongue darting out to wet her lips as she sits up straighter, makes her voice more gentle, "Because of Octavia?"

"Yeah," he frowns, biting on the inside of his cheek as his eyes cloud over. He's gone for a second, then admits, "Fuck, Clarke, it was  _bad_. Still is. And I don't know how to fix it."

"Should you?" Clarke questions, feeling brave and maybe a little protective, then further explains at the heavy, dark look on his face, "I don't know what happened between you two, but a relationship isn't a one way street. You shouldn't be the only one hurting or blaming yourself, the only one trying."

"It's just… I named her, you know?" He smiles at the memory, faint, but meaningful and she feels so incredibly sad all of a sudden. "Ever since I was six years old, she's been my everything. So the fact she's barely speaking to me right now—" He swallows, tight, and his voice falters just a little, his eyes brim with tears just a little, and her heart breaks just a little. "It's  _killing_  me."

She doesn't know what went down between them, how it escalated to something so heartachingly painful, but she knows Octavia sufficiently enough to know she's pigheaded and passionate and sees everything very black and white, and she knows Bellamy enough to know he loves her to death, knows his feelings are genuine and he just wants her to be happy. So she doesn't know why they're fighting, but she finds herself not even caring. Which she knows might be some seriously misplaced blind faith in who he is as a person, but he doesn't deserve  _this._

Clarke reaches out to wrap around his hand with both of hers—and even then, she can barely manage to cover it whole—forcing herself to smile supportingly, encouragingly, pushing, "She'll come around," knowing she's asking the same of him, to trust her blindly over a matter she doesn't even know the half of, hoping he sees even a little bit of what she sees in him, "She'll see how special you are, I promise."

He wipes at the bottom of his eyes with his free hand, but he's breaking their gaze, chuckling, just barely, but it's good, his eyes clearer, the sound genuine, "Maybe we should stop embarrassing ourselves in a public place and get to Klimt."

She shoves at his hand before letting go of him completely, immediately missing the warmth radiating off his skin as she grins. Like he's not the most dramatic person she's ever met. "Please,  _you're_  the only embarrassing one."

"Nice comeback," he notes, fishing her paper out of his brown leather messenger back, prompting Clarke to get out her notebook. Just like that, they're moving on. She doesn't think she's ever had something so naturally easy and familiar, and  _safe_ , with someone. "Learn that one in third grade?"

.

"I've officially lost it," Clarke groans, falling down on top of Raven's bed facedown, coming back from the campus library, having spent her entire study session scrolling down Bellamy's social media accounts (content was so sparse she even went so far as to spend an hour on  _LinkedIn_  before forfeiting and stalking his friends instead). Shaw peels her arm off his leg, most likely sending a pointed look over at Raven as he clears his throat. "I guess I'll just fuck off then?" Luckily he doesn't sound  _too_ bothered.

"Good idea, babe." Clarke hears Raven say, then hears some noises she doesn't want to define. When she rolls over, she watches her friend put away her (or Shaw's, she guesses) game controller, shutting down a game of Tomb Raider.

"Maybe I just need to fuck him to get him out of my system?" Clarke offers to Raven's back, not even bothering to explain her mental status. She's more than aware.

"I don't know why you insist on coming to me about this sort of shit when Harper is like two doors over," her friend starts, trying to power down her console and simultaneously let Clarke down easy, "Me and Finn were basically psychic twins at one point, and me and Shaw never discussed any of that mushy feelings stuff. I don't know what you want me to say here."

Clarke props herself up on her elbow, thinking it over. Harper is sweet, and she loves her, but she would probably convince Clarke she and Bellamy are the new Romeo and Juliet but without all the forbidden love and suicide. "I  _want_  you to talk me out of it."

"Don't do it," Raven offers, lifting a shoulder indifferently as she kicks her in the shin with her beat-up maroon converse, nodding her head for her to move. Once she sits up with her back to the wall, the brunette plops down beside her.

"You're horrible," Clarke pouts, leaning her head on top of her shoulder anyway. If she's not getting any advice tonight, she's going to need some cuddles.

Raven grabs her by the chin, lifting her head up right and so it's facing hers, pressing, "Clarke, I know this is a bold concept, especially for you," her eyes flick upwards, aggravated, "but maybe if you like him, just tell him?"

The blonde scrambles away from her, sitting up and sending her an incredulous look. "You know this isn't simply about telling him, right? I  _like_ him. He's a good person. I don't want to lose him."

Like she lost Finn. And Lexa. And her dad. Every single person she's ever loved. She doesn't have to tell Raven that, she knows, was there, eyes already softening. "If he stops talking to you because you have romantic feelings and he doesn't, he's neither an adult nor that good of a person." She crosses her arms over her chest, displeased, "I'm still not convinced he is, considering the gorgon he's dating."

Clarke creases up, swatting Raven's arms down so they simply rest in her lap, squeezes her wrist before letting go. "Thank you for hating her on principle."

"Of course," Raven counters simply, then smirks, just a tiny bit evil around the edges. "I know you like to ignore your feelings, but if you think he's worth the risk—"

"Yeah," Clarke says, not needing her to say anymore. She understands. "I'm not going to storm over there right now, but I'll think about it." This isn't a romcom, she needs to rationally consider all of this first, make rash decisions later.

It's not like Clarke can go up to his dorm, knock on the door and ask him if he would theoretically want to eat her out until she sees stars. She has to go about it more subtly. And Raven is right. She does like to ignore her feelings, stuff them away, and never think about them again. In the heat of the moment, exhausted and fed up, it was easy to pretend she might not, that she might finally risk it.

In the early morning, it's not so easy any more. Before, anger and revenge were her incentives and convenient excuses as to why she cared so much. Now she's admitted out loud that it's no longer just about Echo, she has nothing to hide behind. Which is why she avoids him (and his texts, and his emails) for a good three days.

Then she finds a flyer from the pride club stuck to the announcement board, claiming they'll be having an 'open discussion' to allowing 'minor attracted persons' into their club, and Clarke is already texting Raven saying 'fuck it' in all capitals, ditching her coffee date with Wells (she snapchats him the poster and he tells her that if she needs him to he'll help hide the body) and marching over to his dorm.

 **Raven [03:46 PM]:**  

> _pedophiles???_

**Raven [03:46 PM]:**   

> _PEDOPHILES???_

**Raven [03:47 PM]:**  

> _fucking do it clarke. just do it. screw his brains out. she deserves it_.

Clarke knocks on his door, practically slams her fists on there, fuming, trying to channel all of her hostility and anger into a worthwhile argument for why he should help her out, tries to zero in all that frustration on Bellamy in Echo's absence.  _She deserves it_ , Clarke's been repeating it in her head like a mantra.

She hears him tell her to calm down before she finds him opening the door, surprised look of confusion on his face at the sight of her. He pushes his glasses further up his nose, those are new, shaking his head at her, "What's going on?"

"I know she's your girlfriend, or whatever," she rolls her eyes, speaking faster than she ever has, trying to get the words out before he cuts her off and says no, "and maybe you actually do care about her, but please, for the love of God," she folds her hands together in a prayer position, "can I take a suggestive selfie with you and post it on instagram to screw with her?" She lifts her shoulders, moving her head a little, "Just so she'll feel what I feel for five minutes? I know she cares about you, so it'll bother her, and then you can just say nothing happened and I held you at gunpoint."

It's a masterful plan, she knows that much. Bellamy is Echo's only known weakness. It's also a plan he probably wants to take absolutely no part of, probably think she's absolutely insane instead. He holds up his palms, and she can practically see the wheels turning in his head, trying to make sense of it, "Clarke, take a breath, I don't—"

"Fucking pedophiles, Bellamy," she urges, and when she reaches up to scratch an annoying itch below her eye, she realizes she's practically crying. She's just never felt so powerless in her life before. Echo won. She fucking won. And now Clarke just really, desperately wants to do something to hurt her. "She wants them to be able to join the club.  _Pedophiles!_ "

Finally, he seems to catch on, and gently, he reveals, "We broke up."

"Oh," she says after beat, feeling stupid as she plays with her keys in her hand. She just had a mental breakdown in front of him, even though he obviously no longer had  _anything_  to do with it. "With tongue then?"

The corners of his lips turn up, and he motions his head for her to step inside, which she does, only because she doesn't want to go back into the world right now, being a complete and utter mess.

"You want to talk about?" He offers, after getting her a bottle of water, directing her to sit down on his beat-up couch. She takes a grateful sip of it, shaking her head, both the movement and the coldness of the liquid helping clear her head. "Not really."

Her sexuality had for the longest time been a painful part of her life, something to be ashamed of. To see someone else try and belittle that in such a way, compare who she was to monsters like that? It was a whole new type of heartache.

"I just need a distraction," Clarke settles on, finally, looking up at him. She's still trying to get her breathing to go back to normal, still trying to stop her eyes from watering. It helps, holding his gaze.

Bellamy sinks down beside her. "For what it's worth," he comments, rubbing her back softly, trying to calm her down, "I'm really sorry."

"No offense," she says, dryly, taking in a shaky breath as she wipes under her eyes with the side of her pointer-finger, probably rubbing her mascara everywhere but she doesn't care. "But it's worth absolutely nothing."

Bellamy chuckles, which turns into a full on laugh, the softest sound she's ever heard, as he pulls her into his chest, moving his hand to cover her arm instead, grazing his fingers along it delicately. "Distraction it is."

They end up trash talking the learning channel on his small, old two-seater that croaks every time one of them even breathes differently. Partly because after an hour Clarke doesn't really know how to segue back into taking an incriminating photo with him, but also because she kind of forgot Echo was the whole reason she came here to begin with.

.

Once midterms are over, her friends drag her over to a party at one of the sororities on campus. Normally Clarke wouldn't be caught dead in the sorority her mom wanted her to join as to follow in her footsteps, but Octavia pledged for it sophmore year and basically took over the whole cult. And— _not_  that she's been stalking her brother on the internet or something—she saw he got tagged in a picture of them together on her instagram which means they made up. Conclusion: if Octavia's sorority is throwing a party, he'll be there, which she is hyper aware of sounds like something a stalker would say. She really needs to get him out of her system.

She noticed him in the corner in the living room chatting to two of his friends like fifteen minutes ago, but Raven made her play beer bong with her in the kitchen, and Monty had her try one of his special concoctions, and she was trying to hype herself up in the meantime.

They're kind of friends now, so it's not even like he'll be surprised if she comes over to talk to him. Earlier today she got her grade back and learned she passed Wallace's class, which was basically almost all thanks to him. She won't tell Bellamy that of course, over her dead body she'll be the cause of one of his smug smirks, but she will say thank you like her parents raised her to.

Then on her way over to the bathroom for one final pitstop—after absolutely obliterating beer pong, almost throwing up her dinner after one sip of Monty's flask, and mentally having build up enough courage which mostly just consisted of repeating 'I'm  _Clarke Griffin_ , of course he'll want me' over and over again—she runs into Satan, wearing a faux fur gilet out of all things, eyes lined with white pencil.

"Clarke," she notes, ersatz politely, brushing off her shoulder like the blonde just infected her with a disease.

She clenches her jaw, plasters a saccharine sweet smile on her face, "Echo. How is the club?"

(To her surprise, Misery Business starts blasting over the speakers like they're back in 2009 at a screening of Twilight, and when she glances over Echo's shoulder at the sound system, she notices her friend standing there inconspicuously. Raven is holding up her phone, presenting it like she's a Price is Right girl with a knowing smirk, aux cord dangling off the bottom of it. Clarke has to choke down a laugh, quickly covering it up with a cough. Echo hardly seems to notice.)

Echo huffs, a displeased sound from the back of her throat, diplomatically revealing, "It's fine."

Of course Clarke only asked because she already knew the answer. Practically every member quit the club, so now it barely reaches the qualifications for a college-acknowledged club. It's only a matter of time before it's disbanded all together, which wasn't the endgame, but now Clarke can re-found it next semester without the villain breathing down her neck and not have it's legacy be that they're the club who almost allowed in pedophiles that one time.

"Good to hear," Clarke bites back, no longer able to conceal her dislike for the demon. "Now if you excuse me, I'll just be going back over to talk to my friends."

The blonde is already stepping aside to pass her, when her voice viciously cuts right through her, "To who? Bellamy?" She sounds mad. Good. "Don't think I didn't know how much time you've been spending together."

"None of your business really, considering the two of you broke up," she replies, maybe a little too snootily, taking a step back to her original position, and she doesn't know where the sudden bravery comes from, but she finds herself smirking, "But yeah, probably. And if he's interested, I might even invite him back over to my place."

With that, she makes another moves to push passed her. Echo grabs her by the arm to stop her, and when Clarke wrenches it loose from her grip, she's left white indentations on her skin. "Huh. So  _now_ you care about him? Let's not pretend we don't both know the only reason you're interested in him is to spite me." She scowls, scoffing. "A rich little patronizing bitch like you, with someone like  _him_? Please."

"That's where you're wrong," Clarke says, eyes narrowed as she takes a step closer to Echo, causing her to stumble back against the staircase. A look of surprise overtakes her at her own sudden submissiveness and the blonde just huffs. " _I_  would be  _lucky_  to be with him."

Her nostrils flare, and she reaches out to grab her again, most likely to push her (because that seems like something she would do when she doesn't get her way), but before she can, Clarke swats her hand away roughly, giving her a cold, hard look. "You never deserved him."

This time she does manage to step around her, and it takes her a second or two before she realizes Echo actually stepped off and she wasn't being dragged back by her hair. She rejoins her friends, Monty offering her his flask once again, supportively she's sure, but she waves him off. Clarke wants to be sober enough for the next part. Raven high-fives her, and the two of them intertwine their fingers and dance to Hard Times when it comes up next on shuffle, joined by Jasper.

After a particular intense headbanging session, she makes eye-contact with Bellamy from across the room. He waves, and she grins, brushing a strand of hair stuck to her lipstick away from her face, lifting up her hand as well.

Raven twirls her around, then lets go of her hands, fixing the sweetheart neckline of the blonde's top—probably just for emphasis because that neckline could barely move any other way—before slapping her on the ass with a wink. "Good luck."

Clarke rolls her eyes, but she's already finding herself walking over there, like it's just natural for her body to gravitate over to his.

"I got an A," she beams in lieu of an actual greeting, and his face lights up as he breaks off the conversation with his friend. It's the broody looking African-American guy again. He must  _really_  hate her. ("Fuck  _my_  existence I guess," he mutters under his breath, eyes slightly widened as he once again turns away from his friend and towards a wild-haired girl with handmade beaded jewelry hanging around her neck.)

"Wow, congrats," Bellamy exclaims, genuinely elated, opening his arms for her to step into. They wrap around her frame as soon as she does, some beer sloshing over the edge of his cup and soaking the side of her lacey bodysuit, but she couldn't care less. "I'm so proud of you."

Her hands come up to link around the small of his back, swaying together on the spot a little from excitement. Bellamy smells like his cologne, something woodsy and clean, so nice. He pulls back a little, keeps one hand on top of her shoulder as he smiles down at her, "You did it."

" _We_ did it," she replies, not even having to think about it, fingers splayed across his back. So much for rather dying than complimenting him. "Thanks for your help."

His hand drops off her shoulder, fingers grazing her arm as it does. "It was my pleasure."

They stand there, smiling and staring at each other like two idiots for a few moments too long to be completely casual, then open her their mouths at the same time. Clarke huffs, shaking her head a little. "Me first?"

"Go ahead," he nods, as she reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, biting on the inside of her cheek. She lets out a frustrated little sigh, then just confesses,"When I asked you to help me, I didn't have the right intentions."

"The.." Bellamy starts, then shakes his head, lightly, deciding against whatever he was going to say. Instead, he edges her on, "Okay?"

"I know this sounds stupid but I wanted to make Echo jealous," she grimaces, it really does sound epically ridiculous when you say it out loud. " _Possibly_  steal you away from her and make her suffer."

"That's—you… Echo?" He stammers, still confused, the five stages of grief flashing across his face.

"It's not about her, I need you to know that," she pushes, promptly, holding up a palm. Her eyes flick upwards, just a second, like a final plea to the Gods. "It stopped being about her a long time ago."

Something dark washes across his eyes, pupils fat, and for a second she's afraid this means something bad. Then he counters, voice rough, "Well, mission succeeded."

Clarke has half a mind to ask for clarification before jumping to any conclusions, even though her heart is beating a mile a minute. "What?"

"You heard me," he declares assertively, jaw flexing, eyes practically black, BDE all around, and she's never been more attracted to a single man in the universe ever until right this moment.

Her breath hitches in the back of her throat, and since it's suddenly incredibly hard to actually get some air into her lungs, she finds herself reaching up to fiddle with her choker, like that'll somehow help. Bellamy keeps his eyes fixated on hers, like they're the only two people in the room, which they might as well be. "It's like what, a two minute walk to your dorm?"

"Roommate," she reminds him, not sure Gaia would appreciate them walking on one of her ouija board sessions trying to connect with some ancient spirit, plus he has the single dorm, "But it's just ten minutes to yours, right?" She nods down at her black dr. Martens, then back up at him. "I'm wearing sensible shoes."

It's about the dumbest argument she could've made, but she's almost desperate at this point, desperate to go somewhere private and have him touch her somewhere private, throwing out any and all words that bubble up inside at her without second thought.

Luckily, he agrees. "Let's go."

She grabs Raven by the elbow on her way out, telling her friend she's leaving and grabbing her jacket from her. The brunette raises her eyebrows, pulling a napkin out of Jasper's grasp, making his warm cheese puff tumble into his palms instead. Raven ignores his loud yelp and sounds of protest, instead draws an imaginary circle in the air in front of Clarke's face, "You're welcome."

Clarke rolls her eyes, quickly wiping off her cherry red lipstick with the napkin before stuffing it back into her friend's hand, enclosing her fist with both of her hands, emphasizing, "Thanks. I'll text you."

Raven pulls a face, looking at the scrunched up tissue paper in her hand, calling after her, "I hope you know better than to do this with a condom!"

Bellamy was busy getting his coat from the pile by the front door, and luckily didn't overhear. It's heavily implied they'll make good use of condoms tonight, but it's another thing to actually hear it being spoken into existence. His eyes flick down to her lips for a moment, confusion washing over his face shortly before it's gone again.

"Come on," she mutters, pulling him out of the sorority house and onto the dimly lit sidewalk before anyone else can interrupt them.

It's eerily quiet as they walk side by side, the air between them tense, but not necessarily in a bad way. The jean jacket she's wearing is doing almost nothing to shield her from the late winter cold, but her whole body is running on anticipation at this point so she barely notices anyway.

Halfway there, he finally tugs on her arm and presses her against the back of what she thinks is the library, just enough around the corner for passerby's to miss them. His face is so close, his breath fans across her face hotly, his eyes heavy and half-lidded as his hands slide up her arms to cup her cheeks, leaving a trail of warmth across her skin that goes straight to her lower belly. Finally, after what seems like forever but can't be more than a few seconds, he breathes, "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"

She nods, eagerly, and he's already leaning down before she can whimper out a needy, "Please."

He doesn't waste any time with tentative, gentle kisses, instead dragging his tongue across hers. Her fingers weave into his hair immediately, trying to pull him as close as possible. He tastes like beer, bitter, but also something sweeter still, and she sweeps her tongue against his a few more times, trying to get the taste right, growing frustratingly more desperate, needier. Minutes, hours pass, she's not sure.

His leg comes up between hers, and if she moves a little, his knee can provide the perfect amount of friction she's just been craving. Her nails scratch at the small curls at the nape of his neck, heart thumping painfully in her chest. Her entire body feels alive, crackling with heat, fire, making her practically drip with want—she can barely even feel the brick wall scraping against her skin where her jacket's slipped off her shoulder, his fingers digging into her waist so hard she's sure they're going to leave marks, the sharp coldness of the wind against her cheeks.

Eventually he pries his mouth away from hers, his lips red, bruised, panting as he gazes down at her. Her head is swimming, and she probably lost a few brain cells from oxygen deprivation there, but she barely can make herself care about anything but Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy.

He has to pull even further back to really look at her, muttering a quick 'fuck' under his breath as he admires her face, leaning down to peck her lips one more time before he connects his fingers with hers. They make the last five minutes of the walk in less than three, and soon he has her pressed against his door, placing hot kisses down her neck, pushing her jacket down her arms, his coat long forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Clarke obliges happily, shrugging the stiff fabric off her frame, then starts pulling on the bottom of his shirt. He breaks away from her to do as suggested, grabbing the collar of his blue henley at the back of his neck, lifting it off his body in one smooth movement.

Her hands shift to the back of his neck, pulling his mouth back onto hers greedily, her back arching off the door to press her body as close to his as possible. (She didn't really get a chance to gawk at his chest, but from what she can feel it's pretty amazing. All hard planes of muscle contracting under each and every touch.) His hands slide across her sides to her back, splaying across them and almost covering the entirety of it in the process.

Bellamy groans into her mouth, and it's now she notices he's been trying to tug off her shirt as well. Which is quite impossible, since it's a bodysuit. She laughs against his mouth, hands playing with his belt buckle, "So impatient."

His hand shifts over from her back and up her stomach to cup her breast instead, causing her to gasp against his cheek as he squeezes softly. His voice is rough, sending a jolt straight to her lower belly, making it tight with excitement. "You  _were_  wearing red lipstick before, right? Or did I imagine that?"

"I was," Clarke rasps, finally succeeding on getting his belt of. She just knows whatever is hiding underneath those pants won't be disappointing. She lifts her gaze back up to meet his, biting down on her bottom lip, "But I didn't want to get it all over you."

He looks absolutely wrecked, and she can't help but press her mouth against his one more time before pushing him towards the bed. She sinks down on top of it, starting to pull off her boots as quick as she can before lifting her hips off the bed, simultaneously pushing her jeans down her legs.

Bellamy made good use of the short pause, having kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants before meeting her on the bed. She's just pushed herself up so her back rests against the headboard, trying to unclick the buttons of her bodice before finally succeeding and being able to pull it over her head.

(She barely is able to note his face going slack as he takes in her state of undress, his already dark eyes growing even darker, heavy with desire and awe and want, making her fight an involuntary shudder at his unapologetic appreciation.)

It leaves her in a strapless black bra and panties, her hair probably all over the place, but she doesn't care, is already pulling him in between her legs, guiding his hand down her stomach to hopefully bring her some much needed release. He chuckles, voice gruff, "Who's impatient now?"

He's rock-hard against her leg, so she decides not to respond to that one, just makes sure to graze her knee against it pointedly as she shifts. She gasps into his shoulder as his fingers dip down below her waistband without warning, dipping into her folds, biting down into his skin to keep from making any more embarrassing noises when he breathes, "God, you're so perfect."

He grumbles, the soft sound making her toes curl as he leans back down to connect their mouths. Bellamy consumes her, really, all lips and tongue and teeth, his fingers magic as they move. She can't say it now, might take her a little while longer, but she really fucking likes him so much.

Later, when their breathing has slowed down, and the sweat is starting to cool on their skin, he presses a kiss against her temple, her cheek, her jaw. He teases, "If you want to take a picture and share it with the world to show how much you're winning at life, go ahead."

"No, what I  _want_ ," she corrects, sleepily and satiated, snuggling further into his chest, warm and solid beneath her, instantly soothed by the strong, steady thump of his heart. She-who-shall-not-be-named is barely a blip on her radar at this point. Really, she should thank her. Without her, this would've never been her reality. "Is to keep you all to myself."

.

**Author's Note:**

> dont forget to leave a comment and a kudo or im never uploading anything again. yea. im not above misplaced faith in the emotional value you have for my writing and turning to blackmail. anyway hmu [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell at me, prompt me or sign my petition for this fic to be a fever dream clarke has in s6.


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